I'm carrying empty bags and a suitcase which I plan to fill with the things still in my apartment. For a book to read on the train, I brought along Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo, which I'm still struggling to finish since buying it around two years ago. I feel guilty not finishing a book, no matter how much I hate it. I'm about halfway through it, maybe I can make a big push on it this weekend. I'll be on the train for a long time.
It's a fantasy novel, the story of a group of misfits executing a heist. What bothers me about it is that it's supposed to be a group of people who've known hard times; slavery, prostitution, extreme poverty, and prison. But they all come off as spoiled rich kids. They live in a world with minimal pain and lots of amenities. But maybe I'm just a grouch. When I was in elementary school, I had a lower threshold for fiction with realism and credible ugliness. Maybe I just need to think younger.
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